Chapter Twenty-Two
Soft footsteps approached Stephen’s study in a tentative, timid gait. Then they stopped.
He looked up from his desk. “Come in, Angela.”
The door opened to reveal his sister, her eyes almost black in her pale face. “Brother, I—”
“Speak no more,” he said. “The matter is settled.”
“Did Sir Hea—”
“I’d advise you not to mention that man in my presence.”
Her cheeks stained pink and her lip wobbled. “I-is he…?”
“He’s alive, if that’s what you’re asking. Do you care for his welfare?”
“No, I care for yours.”
“You’re best off tending to your own wellbeing,” he said. “Not to mention your reputation.”
She winced. “Am I ruined?”
“Perhaps.”
The hope in her eyes died.
“If you’re seeking reassurance, Angela, you’re best avoiding questions that require me to speak the truth.”
A tear splashed onto her cheek.
Stephen gestured to the chair across the desk, and she slid into the seat and placed both hands on her lap.
“I’m not angry with you,” he said.
She curled her hands into fists, gathering the material of her skirts.
“You’ll ruin your dress,” he said quietly.
“A-a dress can be mended.”
Another tear splashed onto her hand, and she trembled, her chest heaving with each shuddering breath.
He rose and moved toward her. She flinched as he touched her shoulder, then he drew her to him.
“You know how precious you are to me, don’t you?”
Her body vibrated as she sniffed. He pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and held it in front of her.
“It’s clean.”
She gave a watery smile, took it, and dabbed her eyes.
“Your reputation is intact for now,” he said. “He won’t say a word.”
“Why not?”
“Like most arrogant souls, he’s a coward. He hired someone to duel on his behalf.”
She looked up, her eyes widening. “You mean…the infamous Farthing?”
“Aye. A man worse than Sir Heath, making a living by such nefarious means. But he’ll not be seen again.”
“Sweet Lord!” she cried. “D-did you kill him?”
“I shot him, but he was alive when I left. He ought to consider himself fortunate that I spared his life.”
“So you intended only to injure him?”
“No,” he said. “In my anger, I shot to kill.”
“Brother, no! How could you have done such a thing?”
His conscience, which had been hammering that same question into his soul since the moment he’d pulled the trigger, swelled in his mind, whispering of his own sins.
“I can never forgive myself for taking up arms again,” he said. “But I did it to defend your honor. Better that than have you face certain ruination. Perhaps now you understand the gravity of your folly.”
She lowered her gaze.
“But if I cannot forgive myself for having shot a man,” Stephen said, “neither can I forgive him for placing me in that position, where I had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” she whispered.
“None that were acceptable to a loving brother.”
“D-do you for—” she began, then her body shook with sobs. He placed his hand under her chin and tilted her head up with his fingertips until she met his gaze.
“Yes,” he said, caressing her cheek. “I’ll forgive my little sister anything.”
“Th-then…” Her color deepened.
“Yes?”
“Can you not forgive Mrs. Stowe?”
He withdrew his hand.
“Please!” she said. “She had no knowledge of what I was doing. I-I climbed over the garden wall while she was taking her rest. You see, she’d had a letter from her son and was suffering one of her headaches, and her hand was giving her pain.
She looked so distressed that I suggested she take her rest. Then I… ”
“You took advantage of her weakness?”
She nodded, as more tears rolled down her cheeks.
“So you came to see me this morning not to plead on your behalf, but hers.”
She nodded. “Punish me all you like. I shall remain within these walls until you declare me fit to venture outside. I-I’ll mend the sheets—even do the laundry—anything you name, if you’ll only tell Mrs. Stowe she can remain.”
“And why’s that, so you can take advantage of her again?”
“I promise I won’t,” Angela said. “I-I didn’t like seeing her in pain, but Heath said…” She flinched, and he drew her close once more.
“Very well,” he said. “Speak his name no more and I’ll reinstate Mrs. Stowe. I’ll admit that until yesterday I was very satisfied with her services. She’s even encouraged you to practice your music—something I never managed to achieve.”
“She’s very proficient at the pianoforte, at least when her hand doesn’t pain her.”
“Her hand?”
“I saw it once,” Angela said, “when she took off her gloves—the fingers were misshapen. But when she caught me looking, she put her gloves back on and looked so angry, I didn’t like to ask her.”
“Quite right,” Stephen said, recalling how the quiet, demure chaperone always seemed to favor her left hand.
When she’d signed their contract with her left hand she’d hesitated, a flicker of fear in her eyes.
But he’d refrained from asking. After all, which hand a person favored did not affect their ability to undertake their duties, no matter what Society thought.
Society be damned.
He smiled as Portia’s voice whispered in his mind.
His beautiful, intelligent, courageous fiancée, who doubtless would think nothing of scaling a garden wall to meet her lover.
Why punish Angela for having the same impulse when her only sin had been to believe that Heath Moss loved her?
Countless women of greater experience and sophistication had succumbed to that rake’s charms. Angela was an innocent—and did not deserve to be censured for behaving as many others would have done.
What mattered was that she’d learned her lesson.
Stephen took his sister’s hands and guided her to her feet. “I’m pleased that you came here to plead the case for another,” he said. “For that alone, I shall ask Mrs. Stowe to continue to chaperone you until the end of the Season.”
“And can you forgive…him?”
“Surely you don’t mean…”
“Not him,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I meant the Farthing. After all, you shot him.”
“I fear I must ask you not to make a request that I cannot honor,” he said. “You must pray, for my sake and for his, that I do not encounter any injured young men over the next few days, for I don’t know if I’ll be able to restrain myself.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “Then for that, I am truly sorry. I cannot bear the thought of the brother I admire harboring such hatred for another.”
He placed a kiss in her hair. “Then do not think of it, dearest sister,” he said. “It’s my burden to bear—and I shall bear it alone.”